Brennt Barn Forðast Eldinn – To Regain What I Had
by OnWithTheButter
Summary: When most see Iceland, all they see is a mysterious teen, some guess he's angsty and depressed, some that he's simply unlikable. Almost no one sees the young man desperate to return to his golden age and erase the tragedies he's suffered; the nation so isolated for most of his life that he'd almost forgotten how to interact with others. Historically correct biography.
1. The Birth of a Nation

**A/N: "Brennt barn forðast eldinn" translates to "The burnt child fears the fire".**

**I guess I should state my fan names…**

**Iceland - Egill/Egil Ingólfsson  
**

**Norway - Sigurðr/Sigurd Thorvaldson  
**

**Denmark - Malte/Mathias Andersen  
**

**(in the middle ages) Sweden - Bjarni Nilsson.  
**

**Personally, I've used both Tino and Timo for Finland, but I prefer Timo cuz it looks cuter and I think Finland is a big fluffy ball of ugu.  
**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy.  
**

* * *

It was the later half of the ninth century. Three young teenaged boys were gathered around a small fire. One was lying on his back, half dozing, a second beside the first, on his stomach with his chin rested in his hands and a grin plastered on his face. The third sat across from them, slumped over in a sort of drowse himself. It was silent until a man walked into the hut with a message for one of them.

"Which of you is…Sigurðr?" the messenger spoke up, to be immediately responded to by two of the boys pointing at the one lying on his back.

Sigurðr opened an eyelid to look at who wanted him, his deep blue eyes showing as little emotion as the blank expression on his face. "What is it?" He sat up to address the visitor.

"Harald wanted you to know: we've received reports that the Iceland settlement is growing. The people simply aren't happy with our own country and are leaving for that island."

"They aren't happy because of Harald wanting to unify the country."

"I'm just a messenger, I'm not here to opinionate, sir."

"Oh, it's not an opinion. I know what they feel." The boy smirked a little, before making a shooing motion toward the man. "Your job is done. I have no reply to the king."

Once the man left, the grinning boy next to him spoke up. "Norge, why aren't you bothered by that? Your people are leaving. They're leaving _you_."

He rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Maybe once you get a brain, you'll get it. Don't you understand our existence? With the settlement, a new nation is sure to be born there, and they will be my little brother or sister."

The third boy then spoke, his voice slow and heavy. "Norge's right. 'Tis a Norwegian settlement after all…"

* * *

Approaching two decades of settlement in Iceland, people were moving around as the small village seemed to flow with a sort of its own life. From far above, you would probably see a human ant colony in slow motion. The people seemed contented with this little world they created for themselves.

Then from behind a tree on the outskirts of the village, a small child of about four appeared. With white-blond hair and shining, deep blue eyes, he was dressed in only a white robe and a gold pendant hanging from around his neck that seemed far too big for him. He stayed away from the motion, drawn to the people, but at the same time nervous. His stomach growled and he looked down at it, then took a step of faith into the mix of humans. Almost immediately, he was found by a woman who recognized him as not belonging to the village. She scooped him up in her arms and asked a simple question. "Who are you, child?"

The little boy was obviously flustered. Squirming, he only responded in a begging to be putting down. She insisted he only wished to help him and eventually grew comfortable in her arms. "My name…I am…I am Ice-… My name is Egill."

"Egill? You aren't from around here, are you? Who's son are you?"

"I am just Egill. And I'm hungry."

She figured that the poor child simply didn't know his father's name, and had wandered off and got lost. "Come, Egill. Let's go see someone who can help you find your home again."

The woman hurriedly carried the boy across the town to the place where the chieftain of the little settlement sat. After she set the child down, he clutched onto the pendant with all his strength and shyly looked up to the distinguished man before him.

The woman spoke quickly. "I found this child alone and he cannot answer me as to where he came from. I trust your judgment in this situation, sir."

The man examined the boy and beckoned for him to come closer. "Child, who are you?" He had a hunch as to his identity simply based on his appearance. Earlier in the year, he had been visited by a young teen who was looking for a child that might fit this description: dressed in white, three or four years of age, possibly with a pendant engraved with the words 'af blóði er kraftr'.

The boy walked straight up to the man and spoke in a steady yet quiet voice. "I am this nation, I am Iceland. My name is Egill. You're my boss?"

Reaching for the gold chain, the inscribed wording confirmed his identity for the man. "Yes Egill, I am a chief of this island. I have just one question. Where is your mother?"

The question made the boy bow his head to the ground and frown. "My mother…is gone. All she left me is this." He referred to the distinguishing pendant.

Reaching his arms out to the child, he offered him his comfort. "My name is Ingólfr. Your brother from Norway came looking for you not long ago. I'll send a message."

* * *

Several weeks passed with the child staying in that village, the time it took to send back for the brother and then to cross back over the ocean him.

As soon as the boat was near the shore, Norway was already out and running for the child, calling out for him as loud as he could. "Island! Island, I came for you!" Though he bewildered the townsfolk, he could perfectly remember where he was looking for. Coming to the main house, he didn't bother to announce himself, instead he just burst in. There in a corner was the child, contentedly playing with a stick. He held back a brief moment to watch him. The boy was a striking child, the same soft blond hair, creamy skin and blue eyes that Sigurðr had also inherited from their mother. The mother that left him as a child himself and he had desperately wanted to find again. Unable to contain himself anymore, he dove to hold the child. "Island, I'm so happy I found you." Tears welled up in his eyes as he spoke.

The boy looked up at him, his face showing neither shock nor joy. "Are you…bróðir?"

"Yes… Yes, I am…Bróðir."

"My name is Egill, Bróðir.""

"Egill… Did Mamma give you that name?"

"Mamma's gone, Bróðir. She said she couldn't come back."

"Gone…dead? Did she die?" His voice filled with sudden desperation.

"She never came home again. She wasn't right anymore." For such a young age, Egill showed remarkable reasoning and had little trouble speaking well. Even for being born in such a harsh landscape, it was apparent that his mind already worked like a mousetrap.

"Come back home with me then, Egill. I don't want you left alone out here."

"No…"

"No?"

"No, Bróðir, I'm staying here. This is my home. Come visit me when you're not busy."

"But Is-"

"I'll miss you, but I'm staying here. Come back as much as you want."

"But you're so small. You can't live alone."

"I'll stay with Ingólfr."

"A human's life is only so long. What will you do when he dies?"

"Bróðir… What would I do when you left out for freebooting? You can't take a child out there." There was a slight hint of a smirk on the boy's face.

Sigurðr was taken aback that the child already knew this about him and couldn't formulate an argument. "…Alright. I'll come back to see you."

The boy wrapped his small arms around his brother's neck and kissed his temple. "When are you going home, Bróðir?"

"I… I guess I can stay a few days."

* * *

In the few days, little Egill had his brother recite him tales of old, stories of his life, and exactly how things were back at his home. He was fascinated by this world that sounded so different from his own. When their parting came, he made Sigurðr promise to bring him back things from his world — sweets, cats, toys… — and to come back with more stories. He wanted him to also bring back the two other boys he spent his time with, but it wasn't a promise as Sigurðr couldn't force them to come if they willed not to. Their last moments together had both the child and his older brother in tears. For Sigurðr, he hadn't found Mamma, but she was replaced by a dear baby he couldn't help but feel obligated to take as his own. For Egill, he found the family he knew he had, but feared he would never find.

Though he loved his brother dearly, Egill was born of an identity of rebels who fled Norway in protest and outcasts that had nowhere else to go. In other words, his existence would always be diametrically opposed to that dear brother, as he was born in defiance to him. Even at his tender age, he knew it, as all nations always knew what they were born for, no matter their physical age.

As Harald Fairhair had swept through Norway, uniting previously separate tribes and mini-kingdoms, establishing a solid state, people became upset with the changes. Rather than revolt against the king, many set their eyes to the so-called ice land to the west. There they would establish a society without one man in control, a society that would come to have the world's first parliament in coming years, where they would fear no dictatorship or autocratic rule, since power was distributed over the land. In a way, they foresaw the problems that would arise in the lands they had left.

And so their national personification embodied these traits. He was by nature rebellious, rejecting authority over him, suspicious of kings and organized governments, and possessed the intuition to resolve and prevent this from happening to himself. He was a loner, being far removed from anyone else, independent in every sense of the word, and incredibly intelligent. And contrary to what one would think by that description, the child was also very charming. Carrying around him an air of dignity and mystery, he could make anyone love him. He suffered nothing as he got whatever he wanted from anyone. He was adored by everyone in the village he took up residence in and everywhere else he went. Friendly and witty, he knew he was special, he knew he was beloved by all his people, and he knew how to use it to his advantage. Even in this condemning land of fire and ice, he never suffered, never had a worry. He had anything he could have asked for.

* * *

**A/N:In my headcanon, Iceland looked a lot more like Norway as a child, but his appearance changed as he got older. I'll explain it in later chapters.  
**

**Also, contrary to popular fandom, I don't think Norway found Iceland when the Norwegians found the island, cuz I don't think he would have been born yet. Complex headcanon I can't be bothered to explain.  
**

**Please don't take everything I write to be set in stone facts as to real history. 1) I'm inferring from stuff I've read 2) I didn't exist in the viking age, so I don't know exactly what really happened. We all know historical records are biased anyway. You could say this is artistic license, I'm just trying to write something enjoyable to read.  
**

**Norge = Norway  
**

**af blóði er kraftr = from blood, power  
**

**Island = Iceland  
**

**bróðir = brother  
**

**I used modern languages cuz I'm kinda lazy and I don't know what the equivalents would be in Old Norse, Old Danish, blah blah. Forgive me.  
**

**~Butter~  
**


	2. Alþingi and Eldgjá

"Bróðir, guess what I found!" Egill had come running to meet his brother, awkwardly stumbling as he held his hands behind his back, obviously keeping what he was holding hidden. He grinned up at the older boy, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Oh, I could only imagine what it is, Egill…" Sigurðr jokingly rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air in mock defeat.

"A bird! A talking bird!" He revealed a small black and white bird, not yet big enough to be distinctive, who immediately began to squall after having its beak released by the child.

"Hey! Ya can't just keep a guy's beak shut like that! That ain't right!" The bird had a loud, grating voice more obnoxious than a lot of the drunks Sigurðr had been around.

"Shh, Lundi," the child calmly replied. "Be nice when you meet someone for the first time."

Sigurðr had to hold back a laugh. "That's…a very interesting animal you've got there…"

"I know, right?" Egill's grin returned as he latched onto his brother's sleeve. "Come on! I've found a lot more fun stuff to show you!" The boy started back toward the village, tugging full-forcedly on the other.

"Wait-Egill… I brought a surprise for you."

"Huh?" Egill continued pulling, but back toward the boat his brother arrived in instead. "Show me! Give me! Show me! Give! Give!"

"I brought a new friend." He made a motion and a tall, skinny teen, just slightly older than Sigurðr, came into sight, walking slowly, almost cautiously, looking to be quite shy. "This is Bróðir's friend, Bjarni."

Egill stared wide-eyed at the new person before breaking back into a grin and ran to him. Bjarni crouched down in front of the child and greeted him in a quiet voice that matched his look, "Hey… You're Egill? The place's changed quite a bit since I last saw it. Done a good job, kid."

"You came here before?" Egill questioned, not having a recollection of the stranger.

"Before you were born. Some of my people thought 'bout staying here too. I guess I could be kinda your brother, not a real brother, but y'know…kinda…"

"You mean like Ingólfr isn't my real father, but I call myself Ingólfsson?"

"Yeah. Back home, us three – Sigurðr, Malte and me — we're kinda like brothers too, and you're Sigge's…"

The child nodded and was silent for a moment before venturing a new question, his voice quietened significantly once over his initial excitement. "What's Malte like? I want to meet him one day too."

"I guess…he's kinda odd, but he's a good guy. Kinda loud and rowdy though, seems to really like your brother and follows him around a lot. Kinda surprised he'sn't come out this way yet."

"Oh… I can't wait!" Egill grabbed a hold of his new friend's sleeve and reached out again for his brother. "Come on, let's go."

* * *

The child grew quickly, for a nation. He was loved among his people, thought of as a protective elf over their island or perhaps a guardian spirit of their identity. Neither were far from the truth, and he loved the attention bestowed on him. When his human caretakers died, he always had someone willing to take him in, as if he really needed a caretaker. The people would feel bad though, if they had left someone of his size alone and so he never personally lacked a thing.

Children, naive and open-minded, were his favorites of the humans. He was their size, and in some ways, mentally similar to them, other than the memories and life that dated past even most of their parents. 'Naive and open-minded' was one place he was getting farther from everyday.

He often joined the children in their games. His favorite was a brand of hide-and-seek with crudely sharpened sticks to form a sort of wooden sword. Last one without a cut was the last man alive. The game could be called brutal, but it wasn't odd to them. The children believed in Valhalla, a place only fierce fallen warriors could feast. Those that 'died' in the game became those noble ones, the winner only looked forward to fighting his best the next time. Many of these boys would grow up to be great men, people Iceland would be proud to call his, maybe even legendary figures, his heroes.

In this game, he would always allow himself to lose. Death wasn't something he ever considered, in reality or child's play. To him, it was better to see the human children survive, because one day he would see them all die, just like all the others.

But also at this time, there were movements to toward becoming something bigger. Very soon, Iceland wouldn't be just a mishmash of settlements scattered across an island, but a sort of unit, an actual, organized country. His temperament grew less youthful and more serious. Upon his brother's visits, and the much less frequent visits of the Swede, Bjarni, Egill's requests and conversations of choice were focused of laws, systematic order, society, etc. Though he hated their monarchies, he adapted from them his own idea of society, nearly classless and with no central power. By 930, a commonwealth of small communes and villages was fully formed, governed by a parliament of men from the different places found fit to rule, but in daily life were no different from the other people, a sort of proto-republic. In no less than a mere sixty years of existence, so short a span of time for a nation, and the parliament, which was known as the Alþingi, was a first of its kind, a revolutionary idea in an age where kingdoms were being established across the continent and sole power in one man or one family was the norm. All from a nation appearing to be no older than eight.

Sure, the boy was terrifically smart, but he lived on ground worthy to drive one mad. After achieving such success, he would soon be struck down by disaster. From his birth he had been acquainted with the mountains and ice fields, the creeks and the canyons. These were his mystical places, unexplainably alive. They never saw anything happen, but would find lands previously flourishing with life, burned and covered in gray, hot dust and black rocks. The first time he saw something happen would always stick out. The ground had trembled for days without explanation, until the fire began. In the distance, a loud noise was heard, and the ground caught aflame, with black clouds and streams of fire pouring from it. Egill ran into the ash, but found nothing to see, nothing worth feeling either. He had an odd comfort enveloped in the searing heat though, and against the will of all who cared for him, he would run back into the cloud. The burns he suffered healed extremely quickly and never bothered him. But this event was far from over. Days, weeks passed as the land continued to vomit out burning rivers and burning clouds.

On the winds of the sea, the ash, as well as the news, was carried. The news had found its way to Norway. Worried sick, he left without a second thought, leaving his own affairs unattended and unwarned. When he found his young brother, covered and sitting in piles of ash he had collected, he nearly lost it, both from relief that the child was still alive and fear that he would just die soon anyway. Sigurðr wanted to pretend to be fearless, the calm one who would be there to cradle and rock the boy to sleep and tell him everything would be okay, but in reality, he was terrified. On the other hand, Egill seemed content, or at least not in any fear of his life.

"Egill, what happened?"

"The canyon caught fire. Obviously." The boy's voice was very matter-of-fact, with just a slight tone of mocking.

"Yes, of course…but…I mean…I… _How_?"

"The ground shook and then it split, and the red rivers came from underneath. Who knew there's fire under the ground?"

"But…I don't understand…" He shook his head disbelievingly as he gazed east to the very sight his little brother referred to.

"Bróðir, don't think about going to look. There's nothing to see there. It smells horrible and it hurts. It's hotter than anything you can imagine and it throws rocks. You can't see anything coming to duck either because the cloud is so thick and black, and the only light is the little fires everywhere. It's not worth it."

"Did…did you go look? You can't–"

"I went several times. I want to know what's happening."

"You can't do that!" Sigurðr's voice had turned shrill in terror.

Egill stood up to face his brother and held out his arms, sleeves rolled to show his skin. "I won't get hurt, Bróðir. I saw someone die when they got too close, but I'm still fine. Obviously I'm special. See, I don't even have a mark on me."

Sigurðr examined the boy's arms to find nothing, then unsatisfied, began to search the rest of his body for injuries. The boy patiently and quietly accepted it, sure that everything had healed, until his brother spoke up. "Egill, there's a burn on your neck."

"Oh, I forgot."

"And bruises and cuts on your back…"

"I fell."

"You can't go back! I forbid it! You…you can't!" This child was the only person Sigurðr held dear, he couldn't stand the thought of his pain, or worse, losing him.

Egill then brushed some of the ash from his face and gave his brother a small, reassuming smile with a finger to his lips, before wrapping his arms around his neck and speaking even quieter than he usually did. "I can't promise you that I'll stay away, and you can't tell me what to do anyway. I will promise you that I'll be okay, and one day, we'll know what happened here."

Several years passed before the fissures stopped erupting. The reddened sun and sky eventually came back to normal, but the damage would never be reversed. A once beautiful land had been destroyed and a young nation had been scarred by the sight of seeing his people die in great volume with absolutely nothing he could do to help. Famine set in after the disaster and hardship struck a nation still in its youth. It was only the beginning of a vicious cycle.

* * *

**A/N: I should have had this up a long time ago, but I got horrible writers' block, and when my inspiration came back, it came for all the other plot bunnies.**

**Lundi = Puffin  
**

**I know Norway was pretty ooc in the last part, but srsly. How was a Norwegian never exposed to a volcano before in a time when no one knew really what a volcano was supposed to react? Iceland's pretty chill though, because…he's Iceland. The entire island is a raised part of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. He's pretty much a humanoid volcano.  
**

**Hidden reference to Egill Skallagrímsson is hidden. Just cuz I love that saga so much.  
**

**~Butter~  
**


	3. Christianization

"Bróðir, why?"

"Because the king said so."

"I don't have a king and I don't have to listen to yours." The young blond scowled, beating a twig on the ground as his older brother tried to talk to him. "Give me one good reason I should do what he wants. He's crazy and I hate kings."

Norway was knelt beside Iceland, his face solemn. He had been charged with a task that he wasn't sure if he wanted to agree with himself and it wasn't turning out pleasant at all. "Egill… Ice, I don't want to force you. Maybe a good reason is that he _is_ crazy, he thinks he can dictate your land and he'll do whatever it takes."

"Don't lie to me, you want to tell me what to do too, don't you?"

The older boy sighed frustratedly. "I just want to make sure you're safe. That man…I don't want him to do something absurd."

"I don't know. I don't want things to change. Everything's perfect now."

Sigurðr disagreed on the state of 'perfection', but kept his opinion to himself. Holding out his arms to the child, he explained, "He's just going to send more teachers anyway, no matter what you or your people say. I don't know what to think of all this yet myself, but don't let it get extreme."

Egill accepted the offered embrace. "Okay, Bróðir. I won't get hurt. I'll be okay." The young nation turned back to look at the Christian man of his people, sent home by Norway's king with the sole intention of converting the island, and muttered to himself. "_Traitor._"

Iceland was a strong-willed nation, a characteristic of both the child Egill and the people he represented. Deep-rooted in their own beliefs, the thought of changing their lives for a different god was generally met with sneers, but the push from a foreign sovereign threatened their lives as well. The people remembered their roots, but they were independent from them, and this king shouldn't have any say in their lives. The failure of Iceland to separate entirely from the politics and governments of Norway would eventually bring the nation down, nearly destroying everything they had created from nothing.

From his accession to the throne in 995, Olaf I of Norway began a move to force his country into Christianity, and spread his efforts to Iceland, as if he had jurisdiction over it. Recognizing himself as independent, Iceland repeatedly refused as a nation, though a converted minority of the people grew. Besides the island's issues of identity as separate, Christianity would eventually topple his own government. The boy could almost foresee this scenario, and pushed away the attempts of conversion. The rulers of his island were regarded as a sort of god. A new god, one that would not allow for polytheism, would surely cause chaos as the people would no longer have a reason to look up to the 'góðar', would it not? His own brother, not fully convinced on the religion himself yet, was pressured to make the child submit. The pressure was in turn placed on Egill, and began to threaten the nation upon an almost barren land. The country was worn, almost to the point of civil conflict.

By the arbitration of one man, considered to be a fair and intelligent man, Iceland became Christian.

* * *

In the distance, Egill heard a loud, unfamiliar laugh, but brushed it off as another child. It was coming closer quickly and he could soon make out the words, the voice obviously not of a child, but of an adolescent young man.

"So where's the lil kiddy?" The second person's voice was indiscernible. "Really? … I can't wait! … Ehehe!"

The source of the voice soon came into view. A tall teen, his blond hair wind-blown, followed a short step behind by Egill's brother. Sigurðr pointed just then to the child, and his friend took off in a run toward him.

"Hey, kiddo!" the young man came to a sudden stop, bending down to Egill's height, his bright blue eyes radiating enthusiasm. "You Norway's baby Iceland? I'm Denmark."

"Denmark?" the boy blinked. "Oh! I know about you. You can call me Egill, Malte."

"'Malte'? Ha, kid, Egill, I don't use that name anymore."

"Why not? It's not a bad name…"

Norway had caught up to the two by then and answered the question for his friend. "Sometimes us nations just do that… Especially when we go through a lot of changes, like we have at our home recently."

Denmark added with a smile, "Yeah, Den-Den's a new man and has big ambitions. I'm called Mathias now, by the way."

"That's a good name too." Egill wrapped his arms around the young man. "I've always wanted to meet you."

"I've wanted to meet you too, tyke. It's a hard life being so much better than everyone else though." Mathias giggled almost childishly, narrowly avoiding a slap to the head from Sigurðr. "Okay, in truth, I'm taking care of Sigurðr now, and he wanted to come say hi, so I came along too."

"Bróðir doesn't need you to take care of him…" The child pouted and looked to his brother for confirmation.

"Well…" Mathias started before being cut off by his friend.

"There are somethings people have to do at some times, Egill." Sigurðr averted his eyes slightly. "Maybe you were _slightly_ right about some kings. Denmark drove out my king, and…I'm not sure how I feel about what's happening yet. We'll get everything back together soon."

Iceland simply rolled his eyes with an expression that said 'I would tell you that you're only going to end up in trouble again, but you won't listen to me because I'm a child'. After a few silent minutes of the older two fussing over him, he pulled away, beckoning for them to come along too.

The two followed Egill to a small house, which Sigurðr noted to be different from the last time he visited. As they entered, he was carefully examining the place. Yes, he was concerned for the boy's safety. He would have given anything to take him for his own, and now that he had begun to settle down and once he was on his own feet again, it would be a definite possibility to consider.

Egill took down a plate of fish from a table and offered it to his guests, with only a simple, "It's fresh." Sigurðr passed on the offer, going of on his own to find a caretaker of his younger brother, as had become his custom whenever he visited. He had a feeling that Egill would never tell him if something were wrong, even gravely wrong, and he worried over it.

Mathias had sat down beside the child and received the food gratefully. Taking a second plate for himself, Egill started with a question he meant in complete seriousness. "So, what are you all about?"

"What do you mean, kid?"

"Tell me about yourself."

"Let's see…" the young man's smile faltered slightly, thinking of a way to explain how he viewed himself to a child. "I am the oldest of us, you realize. I'm a really smart guy, and I'd love to see everyone I care about as a family, since I haven't had one. My mother was never there — I don't even know who she was — and my father disappeared to England when before the viking age. Though I am currently the ruler of England, but I have yet to find him, he's probably dead. Norway makes a big deal out of getting out on his own again, but I want him to stay. I just want my family all together."

"You know England?"

"Yeah?"

"I know England…and Scotland and all of them. I'm pretty sure I share blood with them, at least I hope I do. Their home is so much nicer…"

Mathias was shocked by the words that he deemed too mature to come from a child's mouth.

"Don't tell Bróðir this, but I wish he'd leave me alone. Him and his kings are always trying to tell me what to do, but I'm my own person. I look little and cute, but I'm no child, not in my head. One cannot simply tell their brother to get lost though. England and those in that land seem so much more reasonable, and I like their life. I'd never give up my life though, no matter the threats. It's been hard enough these last few decades, and when it seemed like everything would be lost, I met them from Britain and they had everything working. It gave me a little hope."

"Hey… What are you talking about?"

"A little less than thirty years ago, Olaf Tryggvasson forced me to become Christian. I thought it'd destroy my life."

"Why? I mean…I've been Christian for–"

"No, I still think it will, if I can't keep this from crumbling over on itself. You wouldn't understand."

"Ice…"

The child pointedly ignored him, turning his attention to the food in his lap. A small while later, he looked back up to the teen with a tiny smirk. "I bet I can eat more than you."

* * *

**A/N: I can't stress this enough (because it bugs the crap out of me): most of what I write in this story, especially in very early history, is gleaned from sources and filtered through opinion. I don't think it's entirely accurate, but I'm using conjecture as how a _national personification_ would feel about history. Nazi Germany is a perfect example of not everything the government has to be connected the the personification, and so I think a lot of things are like that. For example, in this chapter, Norway has mixed feelings about the exile of Olaf II because that scene takes place before his death, which is when he became a national hero. There's a bunch of other stuff I wrote in that frame of mind. I've done a lot of research for this, but if you have any comments on how I portrayed it, if you liked it or not, or if you'd like me to explain my thinking, please ask~ I love ranting about my headcanons, especially history related ones.  
**

**I'd really, really, REALLY~ appreciate reviews. Fellow authors will understand my joy at receiving reviews.  
**

**~Butter~  
**


	4. Age of the Sturlungs

**A/N: I really, really didn't want to write this chapter (mostly because 1. I haven't read much about the Sturlung Era (I'm too lazy to look up the Sturlunga saga) and 2. it's quite boring to me), but I…kinda have to since it's an important part of history and I really want to write about later stuff… So this is all pretty much stream of consciousness that I wrote very broken apart and it probably doesn't flow well and isn't long or very good. I apologize. If I ever get a better idea on this part of history, I'll probably rewrite this.**

* * *

Over two centuries had passed since the decision of 1000 to Christianize Iceland. As the child nation had predicted, the influence of the Norwegian crown grew, but the isolated country remained stable.

Over the years, Egill had picked up the hobby of writing, recording tales, poetry and history as he remembered it. Writing was his comfort. Denmark had taught him a new alphabet, to write on paper, and gave him books to occupy himself with. He wrote everything, from laws to translations, genealogies to myths.

Among his people, he fit in easily among skalds, quickly learning to compose his own poetry, though he guarded it with his if, never letting others see or read it. He was still the highly regarded child of the nation he had always been, his wishes were always fulfilled and he lived in peace, though tides would soon turn on the island.

It was a time of prosperity, a time he would remember forever as his goal to re-attain. The people were wealthy and respected, the nation's friends reaching across the seas. Those of the British Isles, long admires, were frequent allies and trading partners, and Egill felt as family with those nations to the southeast. Though his brother, he had come to be known as Sigurd as languages evolved, would always disagree, the Icelandic nations held firm to his heart the belief that he belonged to Celtic blood every bit as much as Norse blood. His people's belief of him as a spirit or a sort of elf had begun to influence him, and as time wore on, he became less and less human in his mind, therefore his blood didn't matter. It was a childish mentality, not needing reason of explanation to back it up, only the feelings of his heart.

The ever-increasing pressure from Norway to come home was beginning to push his heart away. The Norwegian kings had their sights adamantly set on returning their former people to their control, and Sigurd's wish to bring his brother home with him did nothing to make the child feel any closer. The viking age was over, the Norwegian teen nation had no longer the distractions that kept him away for long, all he wanted was for his most beloved, his 'baby' brother to come home. Egill was happy alone and suspicious of authority and kingdoms, wanted no part of his brother's land. His intention wasn't to reject Sigurd, he just wanted his hard-earned freedom.

Snorri Sturluson was one such man Egill was well acquainted with. He knew him as a baby, born to a prominent family, watched his childhood unfold, until the day he witnessed his death. He watched as Snorri was educated, worked with him in writing, stood behind his decisions and words as the lawspeaker for the Alþing, and personally bid him farewell on his journey to Norway. And he worried. With Snorri's near-lifelong connection to the Norwegian monarchy and friendship with the king and regents, he couldn't help but ponder what influences he would return with. The people loved him, he had the influence to do whatever he wanted, or what Egill worried over, whatever Håkon of Norway wanted.

When Snorri returned, he did come back as a sort of knight of Norway. Håkon had expected him to fulfill his wishes for Iceland, but as time went on, nothing happened. Life continued as normal for years after, but Egill's anxiety never slept. Soon, a nephew to Snorri would accept vassalage to Håkon, but unlike his uncle, he would enforce the king's will and rule on the island, in the tradition of Norway's kings, spilling blood if need be. The largest war in Iceland's history to date would end the lives of over fifty people in one day.

From then on, war continued, dividing the country over and again. Norway exerted power more and more over the islanders as they turned to foreign help to settle their battles. Forty-four years after the most influential chief of Iceland became a vassal of Norway, Iceland accepted the rule of Norway. Egill, tired of the blood of his people, gave up fighting his brother. In 1264, the commonwealth of Iceland ended, closing the chapter on both the nation's golden age, as well as its bloodiest era.

* * *

Egill took Sigurd's hand, his face stone-hard, as they walked to the castle. No words passed between them, and their emotions ran widely different. Sigurd was elated at finally having his brother for his own, no longer having to worry over his well-being with only his word that he was fine to go by, now having his dearest close to him. Egill now was subjected to the things he distrusted and hated, with the feeling that things wouldn't get better for a long time. He could only imagine what would happen to him.

Large doors opened as the two approached them. At the end of the room sat the king they would now be united under, still a young man himself. Standing a few feet in front of him with a small smile, Sigurd was proud to introduce to him: "My king, Magnus, I bring to you Iceland."

The child, now about twelve physically, stared at the king before him with a glare that he didn't even bother to hide.

* * *

**A/N: Random thought: ffn should make a "history" genre just for Hetalia, because sometimes (all the time) I just wanna read a good history fic and I go searching and searching…and yeah. I usually give up. This seconds as a "IF YOU KNOW ANY GOOD HISTORY FICS, PM ME THEM PLEASE". I…just…love them. Okey.**

**~Butter~**

**P.S. I felt awkward writing directly about Snorri Sturluson for some reason… I mean, I don't have problems writing about kings and presidents and other miscellaneous political figures… but for whatever reason I felt awkward, even though he was a political figure. Yay for awkwardness~**


	5. The Beginning of a Decline

**A/N: You may have noticed the slight title change .-. This is what happens when one is reading about Iceland's independence movement while listening to the Healing Incantation from Tangled. I mean…srsly…it fits so much (at least my view on Icey XD).**

* * *

Norway opened the door to find the child, curled up in and clinging to an old coat, lying in the corner of the room. Though he had held himself together throughout the meeting with the king, as soon as they left, Iceland broke down, screaming and wailing incoherent words and took off running before anyone could stop him.

Where he lay, he almost looked like he had cried himself to sleep, save for the intermittent hiccups and sobbing quivers that shook his body. The Norwegian young man slowly and quietly walked over to him, sitting beside him. "Ice…" he softly spoke, to no response. "Ice… Egill…" He gently placed a hand on the child.

Just then, the boy arose, grabbing his brother's arm tightly and bending it away from him forcefully, as he started to scream again. "Why? Why did you have to do this to me? This is all your fault!" As Sigurd was shocked stiff and silent, Egill pushed him over, sitting on his chest and pounding his fists into the older. "It's your fault they died! It's your fault everything's been ruined! Everything I worked for is gone and it's all your fault! Why? Why?" He broke back into a cry, rolling onto the floor.

Sigurd sat up and almost mechanically went to embrace the child. "I'm sorry, I–"

"I can take care of myself, Bróðir. I lived alone all these centuries and was successful."

"I was lonely, Egill. I…I had to have you." He buried his face in the boy's shoulder. "You're the one I care for and love the most, I can't stand it without you. I'm sorry."

Egill pushed his brother over again and stood up, grabbing the coat. His face turned stone-cold, though still tear-stained, pondering whether to attack again. "You're selfish. Selfish and immature." He went to walk out of the room. "I'll stay with you, Bróðir, but I'll still take care of my own self."

For several weeks, Iceland avoided Norway altogether, only crawling beside him to sleep. Like any nation would be, he was hurt and angered by the loss of his independence, even if it was to his dear brother, and it pushed him over the edge as he had fought desperately to avoid this situation. The treaty formed something of a union between the two states, and while Iceland retained autonomy, he was still under the monarchy, an institution he despised. Norway had become dependent on Icelandic trade, to be able to control the flow of goods was what the government had wanted. Iceland's fortune and prosperity were largely untouched as of yet by foreign rule.

* * *

Egill pressed the side of his head up against the large, ornate door. He had been watching and knew that Norway had been asked to meet with his king. Curious, he strained to hear the conversation, not aided by the fact that the language here had begun to diverge from his own just enough to sound strange. It sounded like normal things. Something about Denmark, securing the border with Sweden, threats rising up in Finnmark, some man ran into the city yesterday with his arm cut off blaming the king… Nothing was of interest to the child for a long while, until the conversation took a turn.

"So how has Iceland been?"

It had been several years since the treaty was signed, relations between the two nations yet to return to normal.

"I'm not quite sure, Magnus. He avoids me by day, but comes to me at night. It's been this way the whole time."

"And they say he's become violent over this?"

"Yes. He's attacked me a few times, though most of the time, he runs when I see him."

"Hm, I see. 'Why?' is my question. You are his brother who raised him, right?"

"Iceland is a very self-sufficient child. I acknowledge that he has been alone most of his life because I simply couldn't be there all the time. He doesn't trust me, or anything else here."

"I see. I would like to speak with him once."

Egill widened his eyes and took off. He didn't want that. If only there was some way to teleport home…

Within minutes, he heard those doors open and slam again, just as he predicted. A fifty percent chance was all he had that he could avoid this just a little while longer. He stopped, ducking behind a column, and listened intently for footsteps. None.

"Egill?" He could clearly hear the call. "Lillebror, where are you?" The footsteps then started, and as chance would have it, in Egill's direction. He backed against the wall. "Ice, come on, I know where you are. Let's be civil and mature, both of us, okay?"

Unwilling to accept defeat, the child sank down to the floor. The footsteps got louder and louder until they stopped. He looked out to see a pair of feet in front of him, moving his glance up the thin body to meet Sigurd's softly smiling face. Begrudgingly, he stood up without a sound.

"Bróðir misses you. Things aren't going to change by your running away all the time."

"I know, I…" Then with a sudden small smile, "Let's start over, Bróðir." Holding out his hand, "I am Iceland, and you are my dear big brother. Our history together may not be what either of us wanted, and honestly, what we each want is probably very different from the other's. From now on, I will stand by your side as the brother you always wanted me to be, and as long as I am treated with the same respect, I will remain loyal to you. One day, Bróðir, I will grow up, and as an adult, I will leave you, but I will always love you. I cannot stay a child forever."

Softly, the taller nation held the outstretched hand in both of his. "Thank you, and I promise I will protect you with all of my life, from whatever would harm you. I cannot prevent bad things from happening, but I will try to be the best brother I can. Now let's go eat together."

* * *

**A/N: /ADMISSION OF GUILT/ I wrote most of this with little to no research, just based on stuff I've read a while ago and the lovely derpiness of my brain. I would like to use this as an opportunity to claim artistic license yet again for anything I failed.**

**I was going to write about the mini Ice Age thing, but then I got lazy and decided I'll write a whole chapter about that and the relations of Iceland and some other nations. When I feel like researching it better /shot**

**Please review~ Especially if you have suggestions for something (I'll take them, even for more modern history, and try to work them in), or questions about whatever, or corrections on my fails. I love you, readers!  
**

**~Butter~**


	6. I Want to Go Home…

"_I want to go home…_"

Iceland was standing at a window, overlooking the city from the vantage point of the castle. People came and went below, ebbed and flowed, but they weren't comforting, they weren't his people. No, these were Bróðir's people, and decades had passed since the child could stand and watch his own at will like this. He had been back to the island, albeit infrequently, as journeys across the sea were too long, and with winter now approaching, dangerous. If only there was another way.

Resigning himself to another winter in Norway, he turned away from the window, his expression very obviously wearing self-pity. He ignored everyone who asked after his well-being as he wandered seemingly aimlessly by. There was no one he felt compelled to talk to, nothing he felt compelled to do. He walked by a familiar door and turned to look at it. Bróðir's room. For a lack of something better to do, he decided he would crawl up somewhere in the room until there was something better to do. Cautiously opening the door, he was met with the sight of his brother leant over his desk, working on a letter or document, he wasn't sure which. Since his back was facing Egill, the child soundlessly entered and sat down beside the bed.

"Good day, Ice." The young man didn't even lift his head to see who had entered, but still knew. Wanting to see if he could fool his brother, the child sat silently, pretending he wasn't he wasn't there at all. After a short moment, Sigurd reaffirmed his knowledge of the boy's presence. "I know you're there, Egill."

The platinum blond walked over and placed his hands on the back of his brother's head. "Do you have eyes back here, Bróðir?"

He almost jumped at the unexpected and frigid touch. Spinning around, he held the thin hands in his own, holding them up to his own cheeks, and answered with a concerned frown. "The fairies told me you came in." Then, dropping the boy's hands back down, he moved his touch to his forehead, brushing away the light-colored strands. Cold as well. After over four hundred years of this nation's life, he had become used to the coldness of his skin, not unlike his own, but this was unnatural. Looking closely, he even noticed that the boy's skin was growing more and more pallid. "Hey, do you feel alright?" His usually calm tone of voice was slightly broken with worry. He never could stop the anxiety he felt for the child's health. Over time, he had only documented strange physical reactions to those unpleasantly common tremors and eruptions of the land, but nothing like this. Feeding his fear from before he ever met the child was the name _Iceland_ that had come from a legend that the land had killed off the entire livelihood of a man, who would go on to condemn the isolated land as uninhabitable. These centuries had proved that man wrong, but the worry that something would turn horribly wrong and kill the nation would always plague Sigurd.

"I'm okay." Egill's brow furrowed as he replied, bewildered by the sudden fretting. "I was thinking about wanting to visit home, but the sea is already icing over…" The young man had turned back to his writing, fumbling for another paper, appearing so preoccupied with other concerns that the boy almost thought he hadn't heard him at all. He sighed, but it wasn't like Bróðir had a way to send him home anyway.

"The sea is already iced over, you say?"

The late reply almost startled the boy. "Yes… Not here, but farther north. I heard the tradesmen debating whether to stay the winter, and that was brought up."

"Is it just me, or is it getting earlier and earlier in the season that we freeze?"

"No, Bróðir, it is getting colder."

Sigurd glanced back to the boy with folded lips. "Let me finish this, then we can see about getting you home."

The statement surprised Egill. For one, even if they did make it to the island, they would inevitably be stuck there until spring, and while he personally didn't have a problem with that, he knew his brother couldn't be away that long, and no way would he let him go alone.

In a short while, Sigurd stood, all but one papers in his grasp. Explaining, he said, "I need to get this sent, then we'll see about your little trip," and nonchalantly left.

After pondering what was on his brother's mind a short while, Egill picked up the left behind paper. The words were different from his own, but still understandable.

"_Iceland had become unusually and frighteningly cold and pale. As this has taken place slowly, I have not noticed as soon as I wish I had, and I am decently sure it has to do with something happening in his land. I am going to send him there today for a few days, to survey for anything out of order. Although I do not think he is quite ill, I would like for you to see him when he returns, just to be sure. Regards, Norway_"

A letter to the physician? It was just like Bróðir, always making a fuss over him.

In a short while, Sigurd returned, kneeling down on the floor and beckoning for Egill to come to him. Once he was close enough, the young man silently picked up the pendant that had hung around Iceland's neck since infancy, and then pulled out the matching one from his pocket. After several, heavy and silent moments, he spoke even softer than normal. "I trust you, Ice. Only be a few days, and be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. We here haven't heard anything, so look for signs and forewarnings." Egill stared in befuddlement over what he was planning to do. "These will work like a sort of conductor and communicator. If all goes according to plan, you'll be able to teleport there and then send a signal back to me when you're ready to come back." He then focused his eyes on the carved medal, whispering an incantation under his breath. Once finished, he completed his explanation. "Cup it between your hands, just to make sure it works."

Slightly skeptically, the boy did as he was told, and was startled when the pendant lying in Sigurd's lap lit up. "Have you done this before, Bróðir?"

"Yes, but with stones. Denmark and I used a similar technique to frighten people."

"Oh, runes?"

"No, sort of like runes, but…no."

"Oh…"

"Shh…" He placed his hand on the child's head. "Just think about where you want to go. Be serious now, you have to picture it." Without a sound, he mouthed a spell, face twitching as the child disappeared.

Phasing back into view, Egill rubbed his eyes as he recognized the place. The people…he felt the hole in his heart fill as he simply watched them. Many were staring. Of course, it's not every day a child just appears from nowhere.

"Mamma, there's a ghost!"

A soft smile came to his face as he recognized his own tongue spoken from the child, just smaller than himself. It was a young girl, and she ran toward him. Egill didn't move an inch.

"Are you a ghost?" She grinned, not at all afraid, just overly curious.

"No, not really."

"No?"

He clearly remembered his former place here. "I'm a spirit, yes, but not a ghost. I'm not dead."

"Who are you? I'm Eydís."

"I'm Egill." He turned around to look up at the mountains. "I have to go. Take care, Eydís."

He took off in a run, in a hurry to see as much as he could, do as much as he could, enjoy as much as he could, until he had to return to Norway. He came to the port, watching as the last of the merchants readied to leave before the close of the season, carefully listening to everything. Near one ship, there was talk of crop failures, over near the rocks were men discussing the cold weather. Just like Bróðir… Was something really going to turn bad? He walked up to one group, inquiring in broken German.

"Do you know what is happening with the weather?"

The men were surprised to hear this from such a small body. One stooped to his level, answering him in a childish way. "I don't know, boy, that's quite a hard question for such a little child. Where's your family?"

Egill only stared at him with a displeased look. From behind, an older man, at least seventy, joined the group, immediately directing his attention to the child. "Egill? Is that you?"

Egill recognized him at once. It had been nearly fifty years, but he knew this human. "Bjartur?"

"How are things in Norway?" Turning to the German men, he explained, "This is the guardian spirit-child of our people. Do treat him respectfully, he has lived longer than any of us will."

With his most serious face, he repeated his question to the man he knew would take him seriously. "Do you know what's happening with the weather?"

The man's head slightly dropped and he spoke in a whisper. "It's gotten cold…cold very early, and it only gets earlier every year. Any more of this and we won't have as much space to live, I imagine famine is awaiting my grandchildren."

Egill turned his head back to the mountains, imitating the whisper. "Our…everything won't be there for us, will it? Bróðir is already worried and he doesn't know a thing. First will go our trade, then our own food. We'll have to rely on the crown, won't we? And one cannot stop it."

* * *

**A/N: LOOK AT ME WRITING LIKE I ACTUALLY KNOW WHAT I'M WRITING ABOUT. /totally referring to the magic stuff yup/ Weird headcanons are weird. I hope no one's bothered by Norge's magic because there'll be more of it later on XDD (and I still won't know what I'm writing)**

**Notes I feel compelled to share:**

**Where the name "Iceland" comes from (I'm reciting by memory because I really don't feel like looking it up, so forgive/correct me if it's not 100% accurate), there was this man named Flóki sailed to the island and lived there for a summer, but in the winter, all of his livestock died because he wasn't prepared for the cold. Because of the drift ice and because of the cold, he named the island Ísland (Iceland) and declared it worthless.**

**The runes reference is to the fact that runes were held to have magical qualities. I think Iceland used them for magic, and still believes they're magical for several reasons. One, I use "Egill" as his human name after Egill Skallagrímsson, who used runes. Two, I see Iceland as a skald and a writer, so having learned to write with runes, it's logical that he would have learned…other uses for them. Aaand lastly, I think though Icey is officially "Christian", he still is very pagan. Belief in the Norse gods was never banned, and so he kept on with his beliefs, all while pretending to go along with Christianity.**

**Yes, Eydís and Bjartur are just random people I made up on the spot.**

**I think my author's note is almost as long as the chapter… /shot**

**I hope everyone enjoyed!**

**~Butter~**


	7. New Ruler, Downfall

**A/N: Let it be known…I hate this chapter. It was hard to get the inspiration to write ANYTHING for this part of history, even harder to make it work how I wanted. And it's not even like I didn't know anything of what happened or wasn't interested, most of this is very interesting to me, I just…I couldn't do it. And the next chapter will probably be the same. ¬_¬**

* * *

"So you find yourself coming back to me…"

Iceland had never seen the usually bubbly and energetic young man like this, smirk firmly planted on his face, pacing in front of Norway.

"Don't act so upset about it," was the sharp reply from the smaller, cross-armed Norwegian.

"It's just amusing how you were once so powerful, and now you need our kings."

"Oh, like I actually control these things," Norway snapped back. "Drop the snarky act, Denmark, it doesn't suit you."

The wild-haired Dane cracked back into his signature grin, wrapping his arms around Norway. "I'm so glad you're in this with me, Sjur! If we could get Sweden, we'd finally be the family I always knew we should be…"

He tolerated the hug for just a short minute, then shoved the taller off of himself. "Seriously, get a grip."

This wasn't the first time Iceland had to follow Norway to someone else's rule. Decades earlier, left with no direct heir, the Norwegian crown was passed to Sweden. Now, eager to unite the North, Denmark held power. From the side, Iceland watched the ceremonies of coronation and the unification of two countries, knowing full well how this would affect him. He remembered clearly the words from hundreds of years ago, the words from the mouth of that young man who now held the boy's destiny. "_I just want my family all together._" A driven man he was, still on the same track of mind now as he was then.

Years later, Sweden would join them, in what was called the Union of Kalmar. A strong-willed Denmark, with an equally strong-willed ruler, gained control of all of northern Europe, from Karelia to Greenland, Finnmark to Pomerania, fulfilling his dream of a family.

During this time, Iceland had already begun a steep decline. With fortunes falling due to the increasing cold and the effects of foreign rule, famines and shortages drove the people to the sea more and more. No longer sufficient for farming, fishing became a national livelihood, and with geothermal waters, they found a plenty.

The child Iceland, however, was more and more frequently ill. A firstborn of the land with a physical connection to it, the new barrenness of that island stripped him of much of a natural immunity to disease, the famines and hunger of his people kept him physically weak, almost lethargic at times. Over decades gone by, he memorized his brother's spells, giving himself the freedom to return home as he chose, despite the overseas government, as he had to know what was happening in his own place.

Norway had needed Iceland, the trade between the two countries and the bond between two personifications made life without the other nearly impossible for either. As rule over both passed out of Norwegian hands and into ones who had sufficient, the bonds were slowly weakened, almost broken. Denmark had no such need for the Icelandic products, so trade declined and the island nation fell into a place one could almost call frozen in time. The development of society nearly stopped entirely. As a result, the child froze in his own development, and for centuries would never grow, never mature. He would be constantly nothing more than a baby brother, to Norway, to Denmark, and even to Sweden and his younger charge Finland.

Finland was someone he grew close to. They had no familial or historical ties, but this wasn't the first time they'd found themselves together. Both were younger than the other three, both felt out of place. While four could form a decent family, with close blood bonds with one another, Finland was the one who was vastly different. Timo, as he was called, was only related in that he was born and grew up near by. Iceland's land was far, his ideals and life had deviated from those of his Norse origins. He wasn't the same as his brother, Norway, nor Denmark or Sweden. Egill, nearly Timo's size despite the age gap between them, found a close friend in the Finn, a friend who could see where he was coming from sometimes, making the foreign rule a little more bearable.

* * *

For days, most didn't see the boy. He felt sick, he said, running a fever and could barely move. Sigurd grew visibly stressed, making the child's illness plainly known to all who knew them, without a word being spoken on the subject. Before news would ever arrive from the distant land, the illness became obvious. It was the Black Death that had ravaged Europe over a century before. With a large part of his people falling to the infamous plague, Iceland's physical body took on the symptoms that would kill most humans, and suffered without the usual end of death. A seemingly endless, hopeless, excruciating struggle, in other words. In under two weeks of the disease infiltrating his body, it began to shut down, masses of time spent unconscious and unresponding to avoid the pain. When he awoke, he still wasn't all there, glazed eyed and spasming, crying almost involuntarily to go home. Sigurd's life for over a year consist of trying to ease the pain of a child at death's door, yet wouldn't die.

They had all been through this before, to varying severities and for various lengths of time, some not completely recovered yet, Norway in particular. While it was permanently engraved in his memory, it was almost like he couldn't remember, blocking out the agony, the fear and emotions that ran with it. Decades later, as his dearest fell to a possibly worse case, all of the memories returned, at times it was almost as if his own body physically brought back the feelings. As he struggled to handle his brother's situation, there were times he'd work himself sick, times they'd find him passed out as well, from exhaustion.

Mathias knew Egill was horribly sick, but almost ignored it. There wasn't anything he could do, he had more important things to attend to, he had excuses why didn't have to bother. As a ruler, he let Iceland down, creating a rift between the two that would only strengthen over time, tearing apart a relationship that had already been strained. Egill had distrusted him from the start, but he didn't trust many, even his own brother at times. It only took a few years for the Icelander to develop a genuine dislike for this ruler, and the Dane's way of conveniently ignoring his young charge, even at his lowest points, would only worsen things. If they were supposed to be a family, like Mathias wanted and proclaimed, why was the little on left out? Only when he was needed did he exist, or so it seemed, and he wasn't needed.

* * *

**A/N: …I don't like it. I'm so sorry.**

**Guys. Get used to Denmark being the bad guy. I love him, I really do. It's just…history. Almost everyone ends up being the bad guy in one way or another.**

**btw the Black Death in Iceland is a very interesting topic. Especially since it throws the bubonic plague theory off. /not sure what really to think personally**

**~Butter~**


	8. The English Century

_Shriek_

_Crash_

The blond child's eyes seemed to flash, his face darkened. He had another rock in his hand with every intent to throw it as well.

Defying his weakened body, Iceland was out for in blood, or attention, or _something_. He was angry, and he wanted it known.

"Look at me!" the boy screamed, then repeated himself in the language of the language was directed at. "Look at me! Stop what you're doing!"

"Huh?" The tall teen spun around, catching a glimpse of the stone the child was poised to throw at him. Breaking into an appearingly amused smile, he spoke calmly, which only angered Egill even more. "Hey, Ice, let's not throw things. Okay?"

"No!"

Just as he aimed, Mathias reached and grabbed his wrists, causing the child to begin to wail out, kicking his feet and swinging his entire body against the Dane. "Hey, chill out, kiddo. I won't hurt you."

It was almost like his ears had shut off in rage, and his sole purpose was the crying, pummeling and violence. "No! No! I hate you! Get out of my life! No! Die or something! I hate you!"

Recognizing his little brother's voice, SIgurd came running to meet the scene.

"Nor!" Mathias called out, his calmness, smile and grip on the child's arms weakening. "Come help me! It's your territory anyway!"

As he reached for the boy, Norway's eyes shot at Denmark in prejudiced ire. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing! He attacked me first."

As Sigurd tried to pull Egill away, the child turned on him as well, pushing him off his balance before returning to attack Mathias. "Go away, Norway!"

Norway was momentarily stunned to have lost, at least for the moment, the title of 'brother' he had held as long as he'd known the child, to the point that he couldn't interfere anymore. For several more minutes, Egill railed against Mathias in an outburst that they couldn't quite place the cause of. Eventually, in his rage, he toppled the tall young man, and with a final kick, stormed out.

"You can't control me or my people!" were his last words as he ran away.

He was followed a few steps behind by Sigurd, all the way until he came to his room. As Sigurd opened the door again, he saw his brother quietly fuming under a blanket, and cautiously tip-toed over to sit beside him.

"Are you okay, Egill?" No answer. "What happened?" … "What did Mats do to you?"

Egill shifted away from his brother, training his eyes on the floor. As he started to talk, he spoke monotonely, with a little whine to his voice. "Denmark is bad news, Bróðir. Something bad is going to happen, he's going to tell me I can't do this or I can't do that. One day, he will take even more control and he will ruin our lives."

Sigurd reached to pat the boy's shoulders. "Don't worry so much. I do hold a certain amount of power here myself and I won't let anything within my control hurt you. He does have good intentions."

Initially, Egill flinched away from the touch, but after a few moments, accepted it and leaned against the other. "He's going to hurt me, he's going to hurt you too. Finland and Sweden too. And inevitably, he'll hurt himself. He may not mean it, but he doesn't have the capacity to fill the role he wants to have."

Unsure of how to take the cynical words, Sigurd tried to lighten his dark mood. "What? Can you see the future?"

Egill frowned. "You won't listen to me, Bródir, because you're too blinded by pride to see what will happen. It's very clear to me, it has been all of my life. I'm not as innocent as you wish to believe. There are reasons for anarchy, and you'll never see them." He stayed quiet for a time, fiddling with a hem of his skirt, lost in his own thoughts. Abruptly, he turned to face Sigurd, reaching out his arms to be held like he used to. As he was accepted into his brother's arms, he leant his head on his shoulder. "I love you most, Bróðir."

* * *

During these times, the richness of Icelandic seas were attracting to even more of the nearby nations. English and German traders and fisherman travelled north, some bringing the fortunes of trade with the powerful Hanseatic League, others causing disturbances in an already suffering land by taking from the waters of their own accord. Any benefit that the Icelanders felt from these connection, only benefited Denmark more, creating a rivalry within the union. Having been at odds with the Hansa, exerting their control over Icelandic trade with the English was profitable for Denmark, but at the Icelanders' expense, as they began to lose the autonomy they had held within Norway's control.

Handing over rule to a king, and a foreign king at that, had been hard enough for the young nation, and to watch as the successive kings continually ignored his and his people's existence until they were profitable was infuriating. They were treated as possessions, inanimate and distanced. Egill was nothing more than 'Norway's territory', but under Danish rule, a harsh combination of ignoring and passing off Iceland as none of their concern, yet taking from them what was useful without considering the consequences to their subjects. Egill grew bitter and began to lash out, not because he wanted the attention from Mathias – the attention he got from Sigurd was already bordering on overbearing, by his personal standards — but rather as an indignant protest.

In his brief yet frequent trips home, he would watch the English with great attention. Years before, he had admired their nation greatly, but time had passed and he hadn't seen the other. Quietly, he wished he could, but he was isolated, both geographically and by his rulers. He wished the people would leave him now though, they were taking what kept him alive.

At times, he began to wonder why he still lived. He knew he couldn't end his own life, but there was nothing left for him. From wealth and security to sickness and pain he had gone. He kept himself hoping, wishing, he fed his mind and soul by rebellion, anyway to prove to himself that he didn't have to be what they made him, do what they told him. No one would tell Iceland how to be Iceland.

* * *

**A/N: Neeehhh…short chapter. I'm sorry. It's just so hard to live up to you guys' standards with the little I have to work with. Thanks for supporting the story though! =u=  
**

**~Butter~**


	9. The Reformation and Trade Monopoly

What was there to hope for?

Iceland hadn't been the only one unhappy with Danish rule. Sweden had risen up against him, and being geographically close, Denmark responded strictly. Iceland couldn't see it as fair how the one got a reaction while he was always brushed off as the temperamental 'kid'. As time wore on, Sweden had broken free from Denmark's hand, not without much blood spilt, and taking Egill's close friend with him. In the decades following the breaking of the union, Denmark would tighten down on everyone else, trying desperately to prevent a repeat. Norway was dissolved, bringing him and all of his territories under the direct and full control of the Danish crown.

As well as having more exerted control over them, they fell to the wayside as Denmark's entire attention was focused on bringing Sweden back home, making Sweden see who was really in power in the North, Sweden, Sweden, Sweden. The wars were frequent, and everything else was only secondary to them.

"Why didn't you go with Sweden, Bróðir?" Egill was almost whining. "You could have saved us from this, why didn't you go?" He was pulling at his brother's clothes, trying to awaken an answer from the stoic young man.

"I'm sorry, Egill."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not going to leave Denmark alone."

"But you're suffering!"

"And I suffered before I ever was under his rule. Mathias has a one-track mind and even if he is kind of slow, he doesn't mean to do wrong. He needs someone to be there for him. What would happen if we left him, do you know?"

"I don't even like him…"

"He'd fall apart. I'm sorry that it hurts, but he needs me."

* * *

The waves of reformation were sweeping Europe, igniting bloodshed across the continent. The ideals of freedom, to choose one's own beliefs in a way, but also liberation from the cultural norms of what would come to be known as the 'Dark Ages', were spreading like wildfire. Slowly but surely, nationalism was being born across vast empires and small states, awaking people to make a change.

Protestantism was an easy acceptance in North, at least to the rulers and the majority of the population. The break from Rome was peaceful compared to the wars that sprung up over and again in the mainland Europe. But Iceland, oft forgotten, misplaces or overlooked, took it as an invitation to disagree and rebel. The island nation could almost be thought of as backwards, maybe a little unnatural. While Europe had sunk into darkness and stagnancy in the middle ages, Iceland enjoyed a golden age that they would forever be chasing after to return to. As liberty and nationalism broke light into mainland society, those ideals had long existed as some of Icelandic culture's pillars. While the Reformation was pulling most of Europe out of a dark age, the same movement drug Iceland down in a rapidly sinking spiral into the most disastrous time they would experience.

The plummet had little to do with the actual movement to reform religion. The clash of headstrong rulers with equally headstrong and inherently rebellious people led to long conflicts whose only end was the reassertion of Denmark's control of the nation. His violent temper has been re-awoken by the royal orders to change, but the child simply simmered and fumed, his physical attacks less frequent.

On top of this, the increasing the increasing change of climate had almost reached a low. Frozen more now than ever before, famine was taking a hold of the land, continuing to keep Egill weak and sick. His spirit was alive and afire, but his body couldn't act on his angry wishes. Over several decades, his people attempted to stave off the foreign influence to the nation to no avail, and the boy reclused within himself. Maybe it looked like a recovery to others, but he was really tip-toeing on the thin line between life and death. He grew silent and withdrawn, promisingly like quiet, analytical and smart child he used to be, but actually nowhere near that.

By the late-mid sixteenth century, he had been frozen in time for three centuries. It was drawing near to half of his life that he had remained the same size and age physically, if he had grown any at all, it was thinner and more sickly. Only a distant memory were the rich days he spent in his own world. It was now those memories that kept him alive. One day, he told himself, those golden days would return, he would be respected once again, his life would be looked at as enviable. It wasn't like he could end this life anyway, if he ever wanted to. Hope, no matter how far away it seemed, was all he had for the future. For the present, he had memory and in withdrawing into himself, he could almost feel those warm days. If he began to live in an imaginary dream world, he could erase the bare, painful reality in front of him, at least in his own eyes.

* * *

The continuous wars began to weaken Denmark. Loss after loss, defeat after defeat, everything he had had been poured into battle and disappeared without return. In order to keep the country afloat, they had to draw from their own, often neglected lands. Where there had never been a need for Iceland's products, they grew dependent on them. Trade had slowly been whittled down over the centuries, making the island more and more isolated and cut off from the world around it.

In the dawning of the seventeenth century, Denmark instituted a monopoly on all Icelandic trade, almost as if the protests against the ruling nation had gone entirely overlooked. In this, only Danish merchants who paid into national interests were permitted to buy and sell with the Icelanders, and had freedom to choose their own prices. As a result, a near-barren land was forced into supplying for another, the people forced to sell everything of worth they had in order to keep themselves alive. The unbalanced prices of foreign imports through these merchants made life turn to be almost entirely reliable on whatever they had in their homeland that wouldn't be considered worth anything. As if the famines of the Little Ice Age weren't enough, entirely livelihoods were poured into just being able to scrape by. The peopled turned to eating what would usually be considered inedible so that what was decent food could be sold to afford the things they didn't have but needed. Starvation quickly came to claim lives, it was during this time that the population of Iceland dropped below what it had been at the height of their glory four hundred years before.

The people and their nation turned to anything as a symbol of hope. Within that forbidding and condemned landscape, there were little glimpses. Even though the explosive land, as alive as it had ever been, kept them aware that any small things could end their existence forever, they kept on looking forward. From the foxes who had lived here for who-knows-how-long before the humans ever came, to the birds and fish who called this their home, to the horses and sheep who had been brought all of those centuries ago and continued to survive. These were the plucky images that yes, even an oppressed and subjugated people could tame this other-worldly land bordering between the real and unbelievable, forever balanced on the fine line between natural and supernatural, the undeniably alive and yet uncontrollably deadly.

* * *

**A/N: Shorter chapter again, sorry. There's so many text walls in this that I thought anymore would be off-putting, plus I liked to end it te way I did.**

**Ehehe, I'm getting so close to the chapter I've wanted to write for months…  
**

**I hope you all enjoyed~ uwu /psIlikereviews,IlikeramblingaboutIceland,sogivingmeopportunitiestodos oisfun  
**

**~Butter~  
**


	10. The Darkest Times

The child was physically weakened to the point of being frequently bed-ridden. As the islanders suffered, so did he. So many didn't have enough to eat, and so, he refused. The rationale was that starving couldn't kill him unless the starvation could kill off the rest of his people first. He wouldn't eat as long as they couldn't, stockpiling the food he was given and giving it away to other children on his visits to his land. He could keep them alive, and by doing so, keep himself alive, even if his personal health fell to pieces.

Egill lay in a bed, wrapped in blankets as different physicians called by his worried brother gathered, all taking their turn to look over him, try to treat him, speaking in hushed tones with an uneasy Sigurd. Fully enveloped in his own misery, the boy smiled at the invisible, screamed when approached by others. They said he was delusional, the self-starvation had begun to destroy his mind. He would babble about what seemed to be nonsense, but were actually stories of the current happenings that he saw mixed with memories and tales of the past. It was this world that he created in his mind that kept his spirit from sinking into grave depression.

For the first time in his life, he'd given up the will to fight for himself, for what he believed in, for the right to rebel. They thought that rebellious nature of his had finally died, but he had actually just grown despondent on any good it would do for the time being. When he was strong enough, he would be constantly curled up in his brother's lap, clinging to his waist, riding on his back. Gone were the arguments of why the others did everything wrong, why they were to blame for every disaster, why they were simply incapable of doing right.

Instead he retreated within himself. He imagined that he might receive thanks from some Danish high-classmen for the sacrifices he made to keep their country stable, or recognition from the merchants that so freely took without thought. Previously, he would have scoffed and pointed out that he was forced into it unwillingly, but now he imagined that he wouldn't react at all if it ever happened. Besides, those humans never saw the state he was thrown into, they would just take from him as if his things were theirs to take, they would never see the disaster they caused. Not even Denmark noticed, with all that he entangled himself with. Egill had simply decided that he was worthless to Mathias, and no outrage would change that.

There were some days in early summer that he began to strengthen again, those were the days he disappeared off to go home, taking with him a basket carrying as much as he could handle to give away. The people usually lived on the leftovers of what they didn't sell or simply what was unsellable to begin with. The things Egill brought, he'd only give to the children, because they were the ones who couldn't understand why they starved and they were the ones who wouldn't in turn sell what he gave them. This was the youngest generation, the one with the most chance of seeing quality of life restores in their lifespan and the one with the greatest outlook of hope.

The little villages were scattered across the land. Small groups of children could be found in most, and Egill could fit in easily with them. He would arrive in a place, search out the playing grounds of the local children and meander into their group. This particular place had only four children in total. He grabbed out some pieces of sweet bread, enough for just those four, and stumbled down the hill to meet them. He only stayed long enough to introduce himself, distribute the gifts and disappear again. He'd journey off, stopping in deserted places to rest. Bróðir would scold him again when he returned home for exerting too much energy, wearing down his tire body even more. The spark of fight left in him was enough to sustain him on these trips, but he was slow, easily wearied and frequently resting.

The human children would tell the stories. A strange, silent child came and fed them, nothing more. The details were consistent everywhere, he was malnourished himself, fair colored but pallid, with brilliant yet tired blue eyes. And every witness called him by the same name: Egill, the spirit of Iceland.

The Little Ice Age had brought another danger to Iceland besides the famines and cold. As the island's ice didn't melt as far back in summer, the unshrinking glaciers and permafrost slammed a lid down on the boiling pot underneath. The volcanic eruptions grew substantially in power, as more force had to build below the ground in order to erupt past the ice. But the people didn't understand what was happening, only accepting the events as an uneraseable facts of life, and so, missed the signs of an unchangeable future.

As the boy was no longer full of energy and life, it became apparent how the unusual land influenced him. He had an unnatural connection to it, as it greatly affected his mind, his personality, and even his body. It became noticeable, even obvious, how he would suddenly stop everything and stare glassy-eyed into thin air, only to have no recollection of it, or how his muscles would quiver as if in rhythm with the frequently quaking earth. Under close supervision through his ill state, the link became clear that during those times of volcanic activity, Egill grew more ill tempered, violent even to himself, as well as deepening his lethargy, making his entire body ache and subjected him to spells of incurable coughing and wheezing. He himself had become so used to it that it didn't worry him when the symptoms grew in intensity. His brother, knowing full well from all these years of the connection, did all of the fretting one could do anyway. It didn't matter, a worried heart could never change a future like the one that lay ahead.

And oh how the citizens struggled for their nation despite it all. Generation after generation after generation, for centuries they passed down the unwillingness to give in, even if it cost them their lives. One could almost say that the will to be free was born into the Icelanders.

As a personified image of a nation, Iceland, despite it all, was still the rebel, defying any and all authority over him, even if was silent, and the stubborn drive to do things his own way, developing almost a prejudice against anyone unlike him. Every passing year got darker, every decade sunk the society a little farther into tragedy, but Iceland wasn't an innocent victim of foreign rule. Scorn toward the foreigners, insolence and defiance would only worsen the situations.

When Denmark came into autocracy, as predicted, Iceland would never willingly give up autonomy to the Danish monarchy. It was distrust, and not unjustified. Through leaving Iceland to its own defenses over the years, the nation learned that the aversion to kings and princes was warranted, those overseas rulers only looked out for their own and would always turn a blind eye to the far away islanders, those that they couldn't see the life they led nor have to hear the cries of. If they were to hand over entire rule to this institution, what would become of them?

Nonetheless, they had to accept it. Under a threat of arms, they were forced to accept the autocratic rule of Denmark.

Eyvindur Jónsson was a man who almost symbolized his nation at the time. A poor man in a poor country, Eyvindur had resorted to thievery to survive, and soon had to face the penalties of an outlaw. Rather than submit to the foreign and suppressive authority, he became a man on the run, a man of the mountains, gaining the nickname Fjalla-Eyvindur. For years, no, decades, he found ways to survive the unsurviveable, to escape and defy the stark reality of this life, becoming a hero in his own right.

* * *

**A/N: The return of the text walls! Or…I could call this chapter "Butter's overly partial and somewhat awkward rambles". I mean, I like this chapter and all, I just don't find it very apt to actual events (which, like usual, I skirted around mentioning directly XD). And it is somewhat contradictory in places, but hey, it makes sense if you don't think too hard about it. That's the way this part of history reads to me.  
**

**You all can expect the next update really soon. For one, it's THE thing I've wanted to write about seriously for ages (I've written a lot about it to some of my friends, very informally and very helter-skelter XD), and it deals with a subject that I'm (according to a lot of people) overly educated about. Anyone who can guess what the topic of this very exciting (for me at least) chapter gets…chocolate. Yes, chocolate. Chocolate is good uwu /shutting up now  
**

**~Butter~  
**

**P.S. I hate the fact that certain things referred to in this chapter are so hard to find English articles about. Oops.  
**


	11. Lakagígar and Móðuharðindin

Egill had disappeared off on his own again, after briefly mentioning that he couldn't help but feel that he _had_ to go home. He had begun to recover slightly, the tremors over the past month and other signs of impending disaster had been overlooked.

When he didn't return for days, the situation became a little more uncomfortable. His disconcerted brother searched everywhere, but in his heart, he knew something was wrong and that the boy was gone.

"He's gone, Mats, gone." Sigurd was pacing agitatedly by Mathias' desk, who was fiddled absentmindedly with a bandage on his wrist and putting off replying to letters.

"I'm sure he's fi-"

A pair of fists slammed down on the table, cutting off the Dane's reassurance. "How long does it take news to get here from Iceland?"

"As fast as it takes to sail from there to here."

"Augh!"

"Hey, calm down, Sig." Mathias rose to follow the Norwegian to the window, suppressing a chuckle at his nervous behavior.

As swift slap to the face was the first reaction he got. "My brother could be dead and you tell me to calm down?!" He stormed to another window and started speaking as if to the missing child. "Why haven't we heard from you? What's going on over there? You're surely alright, aren't you?"

Hours rolled by without the situation changing. Late into the afternoon, a message arrived, stating only that ash had come in from the sea in Bergen.

From the sea…from the west…it was ash…Iceland! He had known something had happened, and now volcanic ash was turning up. Sigurd dropped the paper and dashed. Coming to Mathias' room, he didn't bother to announce himself, throwing open the door and began to talk, words tumbling out rapidly.

"It's a volcano! There's ash!"

The sudden entrance had startled the Dane, but he caught onto the words quick enough. "Ice? Is there news from Iceland?"

"The ash has already reached my country. We have to go and find Egill."

Mathias stared at him puzzledly for a few moments, then turned back to his own business. "Hasn't the kid told us a million times that the eruptions are nothing to worry about?"

"But-"

"'Don't worry about me, Bróðir, give me a few days and I'll be fine.' Isn't that what he's said?"

Sigurd clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes. "Yes, but…what if it's different this time? It's _been_ a few days, and he's gone, poof. We have to go find him."

The haze was so thick that no boat could navigate the seas between there and Iceland. There was the option to take the same magical route Sigurd had given Egill centuries ago, and since desperate times call for desperate measures, the Norwegian overlooked that it most likely fell under the definition of illegal. He ordered that his ruler and friend, Denmark, come with him to find out exactly what was happening.

The air was thick with ash clouds, the smell of sulphur pervading, these were the first things they noticed. There was very little visibility, save for an immensely tall curtain of fire in the east, breathing became troubled, and a general air of tragedy and chaos came over them. Querying the people, the quickly heard the reports that the ground had simply split apart in a large fissure, spewing forth more rivers of fire than ever seen or reported of before. Sigurd easily recalled how he had repeatedly begged the child to stay away from the eruptions, and was now faced with the very real possibility that he had ran into the disaster instead of away.

Everything was generally darkened, with the sun reddened and blocked away by the thick clouds, the profuse rivers and spewing fountains of lava, as well as the fires they ignited along the way, providing much of the lighting. Whole villages were already being swallowed, lives already being lost.

"This is the end of the world…" Mathias muttered numbly. His first witnessing of an eruption was an overwhelmingly colossal one.

"Egill is dead, I know it, there's no chance he survived," the smaller of the two mumbled a despairing cry.

Mathias reached out to put a hand on his lifelong friend's shoulder, speaking a reassurance he had begun to doubt himself. "It'll be okay. We'll find him and he'll be fine."

Night fell without any sign of the boy. They heard, or perhaps fancied they heard, distant child-like cries, which served to provide hope that they weren't too late. It was a hopeless situation anyway, there was nothing anyone could do to remove the disaster nor rectify its results. Night turned day, back to night, back to clouded, red-skied day as the ash continued to be thrown from the fissured landscape, vomiting lava high into the sky and throwing super-heated rock and debris. The explosions began to die down, but the haze wouldn't leave.

The boy never turned up. All of the survivors had fled, and the life left behind died off before the eyes of the two nations who had come in search for their littlest.

After many days of fruitless search, they had begun to give up that they would find him. They could only hope that he had left with the people or stayed away from the eruption in general, a scenario Sigurd rightfully insisted was more than unlikely. Preparing to go home, where they were most definitely needed and staying was pointless, they gathered pieces of evidence of what they had seen. Looking once more to the blood-colored unset sun, they planned to leave the next morning.

In this isolated land, by geography, by foreign rule, and now by the haze, they hadn't heard of the increasing global effects. Ash fallout had already reach the northern parts of the European mainland. Early summer days turned cold as the sun's rays were blocked off, crops withered as rain turned acidic. It was a year with no summer, with the colossal effects felt worldwide, but nowhere so much as the once so-called haven Iceland had been for its settlers. The land would inevitably turned barren, the little crops left made poisonous by the volcanic toxins, and its people, already poor and downtrodden, would take a fall faster than any other disaster that had hit them. It would have been no wonder if their nation had died in the initial blasts, far before his time. The splendor of Iceland's golden age was long gone, and with the boy so weakened and ill, how could he have survived the catastrophe if his people were doomed to die within the next few years? The despairing logic seemed infallible, searching for him futile.

Needless to say, as the first to voice this theory, Sigurd was heartbroken. He told himself that maybe it was better this way, if they had kept him away from the eruption, he could have suffered through the ensuing famines only to die. Now he only wished that someday, maybe in the coming years, when the haze left, they could find his body.

As they anxiously prepared for their final minutes in the dead land before leaving, a glance out into the fog revealed a gaunt figure collapsed some distance away, obscured by the mist, that hadn't been there before. Its face was hidden by a bloodied arm, with ashen hair blowing in the wind. Shudders shook the small body occasionally, the only sign that it was still alive.

Mathias did a double take, peering back into the haze. "…Ice?" he whispered softly.

The whisper broke Sigurd's concentration, and upon realizing what he had said, he scrambled in the direction the other man was looking. Not bothering to quieten his voice, he shrieked in recognition. "Egill!" Dropping what he had in his hand, he ran out to the ash- and blood-covered boy, followed a few steps behind by Mathias. Almost throwing himself to the ground beside him, he lifted the body up a little to look at his face, which had fresh blood trickling from his temples and mouth. "Egill, Ice, wake up!"

After a few, thick moments, his eyelids cracked open, fluttering, and revealed eyes bloodshot, inflamed and glazed over. There was even a remarkable change in his irises, once clear and blue, they now appeared an almost red-violet hue. He only stared past the two faces looking over him. "Where are you?" he eventually asked, his voice cracked and sputtering. "I can't see."

Sigurd gingerly began to pick him up, drawing pained winces from the boy. Rocking back on his heels, he balanced the child cautiously against himself. "I'm right here, you don't have to worry. We thought you were dead."

The child kept looking around, reaching up to find his brother's face. "Am I dead? Is it over? I can't… Everything's gone. I can't hear it anymore."

Egill hadn't responded to Sigurd's words, and was speaking much louder than normal, leading to another conclusion: he was both blind and deaf. "Can you hear me?"

The child kept grasping at the air, after having confirmed to himself that the body holding him was his brother's. "It's still there. I can feel it. Why aren't you talking to me, Bróðir? Are you dead too?" Soon after, his head fell to Sigurd's shoulder, having expended all the energy he could muster, he fell unconscious again.

The Norwegian tightly held onto him and stood up. At least he was still alive, maybe there wasn't anything they could do to save him, but they could at least try. "Let's go, we have to have him seen by the doctors."

The Laki fissure's explosion had died down within just weeks, but the lava spurted up for months, flooding large portions of the landscape. The ash cloud spread around the world, affecting every living person, non more than the Icelanders. The coming years would be known as the Mist Hardships, famine and poisonous gases ravaged the land, killing off yet another great portion of the people, as well as most of the livestock.

Iceland had hit an all-time rock bottom.

Egill's body had been greatly affected by the disaster as well. His legs, arms, and wide portions of his torso had been severely burned. He remained mostly blind and deaf for years, and the gases that killed over a quarter of the population and couldn't kill him had stripped his body of most of his coloring, leaving his hair a pale, ashen color and his eyes an albino's violet. Once the wounds began to heal and his vision fully returned, he made a habit of covering the scars, more from himself than from anyone else. He relived the events, the pain and horror over and over. He had been cast into an almost catatonic depression, he no longer smiled, his personality faded and turned to ice. He nearly refused to even speak.

Everyday was a nightmare.

He watched the people continue to suffer. There was nothing he could do, stripped of almost all power, besides continue to starve himself and bring back his food for the children. He struggled to find and answer. Why had the eruption happened and why then? Why did they have to suffer? His mental pain superseded any physical pain he felt.

He began to wonder if it had all been his fault. He didn't know what he could have done to awaken the fury of whatever god or being who had control over this. All he had ever done was try to save himself and it only got worse. He didn't know why, but he couldn't help but blame himself.

By means of isolation, physically or emotionally, he could protect those he cared for from himself, but who would protect him?

His mind wandered back yet again to the beginning. Ash shot violently into the sky, his first thoughts were to find what was happening, help the people, anything to make it better. He ran into the rolling clouds as the magma began to pour out, he could feel his skin searing, and all he could do was cry out…for anyone. Once he managed to open his eyes and stare the fissure in the face, all he could see was disaster. Bubbling lava, cinder…a burning rock brushed past his face. His vision soon turned black, a sharp ringing filled his ears. He began to question if he was still alive. For days, he didn't know how long, he wandered blindly, sometimes falling into a sort of paralysis, sometimes he lost consciousness completely. Finally, he stumbled free. He was dead, he had to be. He remembered fainting. Somehow, Bróðir had found him.

He had been trapped in a dark, silent world for four, maybe five years. He had later heard that Denmark's king had considered evacuating the rest of his people. The trade monopoly was ended soon after the tragedy, easing the suffering of the people slightly, opening them to somewhat freer trade. Denmark himself had been close by throughout the tragedy.

It was hard to come to terms with the fact that Mathias actually did care for him. He had spent so many years building a grudge against the man. He resigned himself to believing that he was just immensely stupid and never knew what he did, even though it had become so obvious how ill Egill had become. And now he had to find a way not to hate him.

* * *

**A/N: Before I ramble, I want to ask you all to look at a fanfic contest. If there's enough interest here on ffn, it'll be held here. The link is on my profile because I can't link on here, obviously.  
**

**The virtual chocolate for correctly guessing the theme of this chapter goes to ShrapnelGirl~ though it wasn't really fair for her because of her nationality, but she's an awesome person anyway who deserves virtual chocolate. Actually, all of my readers are awesome people who deserve virtual sweets. But anyway.**

**As someone who's overly obsessed with volcanoes, I'm actually not all that interested by the Lakagígar eruption (aka this chapter). At once, it fascinated me, that's how I got all the facts for this chapter that I've had partially written for over half a year, but really, I'm much more interested by classic Plinian and ultra-Plinian eruptions like 79 Vesuvius, 1980 Mt. St. Helens, 1991 Pinatubo…etc. Really, a lot of Iceland's volcanoes don't interest me that much. XDD The most interesting thing about them is the reaction of hot tephra and magma mixing with glacial ice, which basically causes the ash to explode into microscopic size almost a hundred times smaller than normal ash. But I'm sure no one really cares. XD Oh yeah, I laughed to myself every time I use the word 'colossal' in the chapter, because I understand the volcanic explosivity index and I know where on the scale the eruption fell, which for interest's sake, is a 6, known as a ultra-Plinian or colossal eruption. And also, not even all of the most deadly eruptions in history even reach a 6. It was a pretty huge deal, has been blamed for deaths in Japan, and is one of, if not the most deadly volcanic eruptions in recorded history. Okay, I'm done rambling about my obsession.  
**

**It was about time I returned to writing this fic in story style instead of rambley, text wall style. .-.**

**~Butter~  
**


	12. The Independence Movement PtI

"What do you mean by this?!"

The worst insult, the greatest grievance. Iceland's biggest pride was gone, and he didn't have any say in it.

He had run to Denmark as fast as his sickly, weak body could take him, hurt, angered and confused all at the same time. Just when he had thought that the Danish nation had cared just a little. No.

"What's up, Isbjerg?" The Dane turned around with his usually little smirk. Reaching to pat the child's head, his hand was swiftly slapped away.

"Why did you abolish the Alþingi?" Egill's emotions were clearly voiced.

"Hey, what are you talking about all of a sudden?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Denmark! Why did you do this?"

"That parliament didn't have any power anyway. It's useless, wasn't it?"

"It's mine!" He was seething, almost spitting through his teeth. "The one thing I had that made me me from the beginning, and you've taken it away! You've taken everything away!"

"Sorry, kid, but I'm the one ruling here, and some things have got to go." Egill continued to glare, steaming. Mathias smiled, shrugged and turned away again.

"You know," Egill added, in spiteful calmness, "my Alþingi made me successful _without_ having to take anything from anyone or destroy anyone else's lives. You could have taken my example, but no, I'm just a little kid. Good luck having the entire world that you've wronged for your own gain _hate you_."

Slowly diminished over the centuries by successful rulers, the Alþingi ceased to exist by order of the Danish crown. Iceland now had absolutely no self-governship, completely at the hands of a ruler that had proved time and time again that the distant island nation wasn't a concern. Revolution and nationalism had been birthed in Europe, and as most of its wealth and power lay in its dominions, Denmark was desperate to stop any uprising before it could start. Denmark had begun somewhat of a decline of his own through lost wars and diminishing control. Really, Denmark's power had always been rooted in an empire that constricted those under it, tearing down dominions to prop itself up on them. And as anything with a deteriorating foundation, it would fall.

Egill had recovered mostly from the Lakagígar disaster, externally at least. But he couldn't let go of it, bearing the scars of trauma on his body and in his mind. Metaphorically, you could say he was dead and his soul had been reborn as a fatalist, a pessimist, and a boy who was simply afraid. Aside from the scarring of his skin and the changes in his physical appearance from living through what no one should be able to survive, he just was not the same. Anger and spite were his expressions. Quick to blame others, he portrayed himself as an innocent victim. Like a cornered, injured animal, he was overly defensive, trying to protect himself at all costs. He had been building up to this through the centuries, but the disaster solidified it.

If the dissolution of one of Iceland's national treasure, the Alþingi, did one thing, it was drive the nation to rebel. If this was how Denmark would treat them, then they didn't want Denmark to rule anymore. They would resist above and beyond any other resistance the people had ever put up. And they weren't just content to disobey, to simply thumb their noses in petty rebellion, they would begin to push and shove for their own benefit instead of the benefit of another. They would fight to recover the Iceland they had heard about in stories of old, to reinstate their former glory.

And oh how the awakening of the people fed the fire within the child nation. He decided that he was sick and tired, literally and figuratively, of these circumstances. Done with sitting by and letting himself slowly die. No, he would rise again to his former status. Nothing would stand between him and his own freedom, the independence to live for himself. The nation stood up to declare itself independent, only to be shot down and rejected. But that didn't quell their passion. Time and time again, they deliberately refused to take orders, in stubborn desperation. Even as they fell into another period of severe lack, they refused to give up this time. They passed on their will to the next generations, believing that their efforts would eventually come to fruit.

* * *

At this time, war was the main event of the time in Europe. Though Iceland wasn't quite involved, besides the tie to Denmark, who had been involved in the war, the aftermath would affect him not through his own national affairs, but through family. Norway was held as a prize for the side that won. As rivals through and through, Denmark and Sweden ended up allied with opposing sides. For as long as the Kalmar Union had been broken, the westernmost nation of Scandinavia had been in this position, simply a something to defend or win. Sigurd himself was passive, hardly ever complaining even as he suffered through the dissolution of his country, the decline of his identity and the on-going wars over his land. It had been a point of contention between the brothers, on one side, Egill's insistence that no such mistreatment should be forgiven or let slide, and Sigurd's quiet acceptance of fate and loyalty to Denmark. Nonetheless, their similar sufferings had made the two closer than ever before. To lose his brother, who had been there was long as his memory, was heartbreaking, no matter how much he criticized the elder's choices. Even though witnessing that his brother hadn't wanted to leave them, Egill felt abandoned, left behind with someone he couldn't trust. He had tried to argue that he had come to Denmark as Norwegian territory and so should have been included in Norway's forced union with Sweden, but it wasn't any use. Through Denmark's dissolution of Norway centuries before, he was stuck under Danish rule.

"I tried, Egill…"

The boy had confined himself to his brother's old bed, refusing to speak to anyone. Mathias had come to attempt to make up to the child for everything that he was angry about. He didn't understand him, but had begun to admire the child's tenacity, will and steadfast loyalty to his roots. More and more he saw the old Norse qualities that had slid from most of their modern culture were still alive and afire in Iceland. Through the loss of his closest friend in Sigurd, he had begun to wake up to the damages he had done to all he cared about. He wanted to make things right with this smallest one before it was too late and he was left alone, abandoned by those he loved. However, he couldn't find a common ground on which to communicate with the boy, they simply were at oppositions.

"I'm sorry, Egill, I really am."

"Liar," the child finally responded, refusing to turn and face him.

"Please believe me. I never wanted to hurt you."

"Go away, jerk."

Though he couldn't see it, he could easily imagine the disdain and ire on Egill's face. "I'm an idiot, okay? I admit, I've not done things right. I want to try. I don't want you guys to all hate me."

"Lies."

"Give me a chance. Let me do something right by you for once."

Egill turned around, glowering strongly. "You're right, you're an idiot. Go on and try, but you'll never make it right."

* * *

Things were changing rapidly. Denmark was trying to making things right. The Alþingi was reestablished, a first visible sign to Iceland that the clamor for national right _was worth it_. The century had begun in a way that seemed like another dead end, but now it was looking up. Knocked down, Iceland had two choices: accept it and fade away all together, or stand back up and swear to make it back to the top. The thing about committing is that once you commit, you can't back down. Once you make an oath, you either follow through with it, or die. Maybe not die physically, but you'd never be able to face yourself or anyone else who knew of the oath. To give up was to forever be a quitter. Now he knew that he could make a difference, and would not stop until he saw what he wanted: a return to his former life.

In the coming years, combined with the changes in Denmark, the rise of a hero for Iceland began to make quick turns toward the better for the nation. A man dedicated to bringing his nation back to prosperity, Jón Sigurðsson became a face and leader for the new-found national resurgence. The man was charismatic and well-liked by all, including the Danish rulers he worked with to achieve his visions, making easy strides for a nation so impoverished and subjected.

The man, just by his example, encouraged the people even more to make a stand for themselves. Iceland loved him. Egill's conflicts with Mathias almost stopped, not because he accepted the man as his ruler, but because of Jón's example. In a time when violence and bloodshed were the hallmarks of national resurgence, as well as colonist suppression, Iceland negotiated to his advantage peacefully, undoing the damage of hundreds of years. His dream of returning to his early days started to look slightly possible.

An ill child for nearly five hundred years, Egill began to grow. The hardships, the pains and struggles, the reality of his society left behind and neglected as the rest of the world advanced had frozen his maturing all this time. They were still poor, they still struggled, but the resurrection of his identity spurred on his physical growth. He was still chronically sick as the natural hardships and famines still reigned, but nonetheless he was growing, maturing into a state of his own, something else from the little boy he had always been.

From refusing to blindly comply with Denmark's new laws to the end of the trade restrictions that had been over them, the advances made were substantial. Iceland was returning to life other than being the property of kings, whom the nation had been opposed to since birth. In 1874, as the nation commemorated one thousand years, Denmark granted partial autonomy, the nation could rule for itself again. It had only been half a century that Iceland had gone from having Alþingi, the one institution that set the nation apart from those around it, completely wiped from existence, to their millennial, where they had seen the rapid improvements and finally, a light at the end of the tunnel. They had survived and were committed, they wouldn't turn back until the return of the free Icelandic state.

* * *

**A/N: I…kinda took a break from writing and enjoyed it ahaha… (No really, I usually can't stand not to write)  
**

**Anyway, maybe people are interested to know that there's only three (or two, if I decide I don't like the last chapter) chapters left? If not, then maybe you guys will be interested to know that I plan on writing a pile of oneshots on more specific parts of Icelandic history, from little factlets to actual events, all stuff that doesn't fit the theme for this story (much like how I wrote Welcome Back to the World, Iceland). The plot bunnies (which are mutants and somewhat scary) keep attacking me, I haven't even got them all written down coherently enough to post on my profile '.'  
**

**The next chapter will be quite different from everything before it, so I hope you all like it. I'm not really sure when I'll get around to writing it, I have a request that I need to get nailed out and some other stuff with a deadline, as well as huge planning for another story and then of course, my baby story which I very apparently love more than all the others (All Madmen are Not the Same, if you're wondering). Just thought I'd pique everyone's interests a little. One thousand years seemed like a good place to stop the story for a bit to hammer down some things XD /shot  
**

**Isbjerg - Iceberg (Danish) (there's a reason for this nickname aahaha, but I don't think anyone actually cares about small facts like that, other than me)  
**

**~Butter~  
**


	13. One Thousand Years

**A/N: aka the chapter full of Butter's headcanons…**

* * *

One thousand years had gone by since Iceland's birth. In that time, he had risen from literally nothing — as no other nation had been before him in his land — risen to greatness in a golden age in which he was the envy of others, fell, continued to fall until one could say that his life should have ended, and began to bounce back. He had not tasted power like those around him, but instead felt the humiliating pain of being taken advantage of by the others who did know power. But he survived. That in itself said something worth taking note of.

The nation had been stagnant for centuries. While the surrounding world advanced, Iceland remained practically medieval. The culture, the language, the everyday living had stayed nearly the same under isolation. As if time had been frozen over the remote and barren island. Of course, the faces and names changed, people were born, lived and died, but as a whole, there was no change, they were all the same.

The child had watched every scene, the monotony of life play out. Only he remained, and it was unpleasant. It would be lying to say he didn't hold blame against others for what happened to him and his people, to say he had let go of an ages' old grudge. No, he clearly remembered how he got this way. The 'Bróðir' that had sworn to be by his side since his birth, he was mostly responsible for this. His feelings were bittersweet. Norway had been the one he had always been closest to, the one who'd been with him as they both slid to nothingness, but he had to blame someone, had to have a place to point to to answer the question of 'why?'. Now that had been gone, it was much easier to reject him and push his anger onto him. If Norway had left him alone so long ago, who knew where Iceland would be now? That Norway was no brother. Maybe it was just because he wanted a little brother…but it couldn't be real. Blood bonds would have surely deferred to allow the child his freedom.

Egill had long pushed away the debate in his mind because Sigurd had been there for him. There could have been no way to tell him that he had been wrong all this time. Surely, the truth was that Egill had only been naive and would have believed anything a 'brother' told him. But when faced with his own stories and legends, he found a much different picture. He was no family to them. Maybe a little, but he begun to believe he wasn't even totally of their human blood. For years, he had passed himself off as the 'spirit' of his people, but now he fully believed it. If he wasn't Norway's brother and according to legend — which he confused and mixed to his own comfort rather than logic — he was the descendant of another realm. Maybe a mixed child, part human, part elf, and bestowed upon the burden of the nation's representation when it bloomed. He didn't need to reason why he believed it, he didn't have to tell anyone of the belief anyway. One's bloodlines are hardly important to those who have hurt you. For all he cared, let Sigurd continue to call him his brother, let them pretend to be his family.

One thousand years later, he still firmly, though quietly, believed his land was a land of gods. It was so much easier to believe that, given what the land was. It was inhabited before any human came, before the Irish, before the Norse. The other-worldly was more deserving of the term 'native', and so that had to be his blood. But this was a belief he kept to himself.

Besides the newfound and complete rejection of those he remembered growing up with as 'family', so many other factors had played over a millennium to shape his character. After so many years of rulers cutting him off from the world, the thoughts of meeting others frightened him. He missed those he had known before, but after so many years of darkness, he had no way of knowing how they had grown, what they had become or if they still lived. By now, every nation he had known had to be complete strangers. There would be no surprise if they didn't even remember his name. It was a crushing idea, but entirely possible.

And he was afraid of what would happen to him. Everyone he had been close to had had a hand in his suffering. There could be no way for him to trust another again, for fear that they too would destroy his life. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say, a burnt child fears fire.

In the wake of the fight for independence, this burden of anxiety weighed heavy on him. Time had proven that Iceland could never survive in isolation, and so freedom meant to be left out to fend for himself in a now unknown world. He knew he'd have to push himself through that fear, to prove himself again, to return to his life as it had been. No matter which way he looked at it, as he looked back over his life, the will to live would have to push aside any fear.

"Stand up tall, Island?"

Egill looked up sharply, his train of though broken, and straightened his back as he had been told.

Denmark crouched to look at the boy from a similar height. "You've definitely grown, kid!" he grinned, making a small smile appear on the boy's face.

They were walking down an old street, at the back of a fair-sized and important group of people. After having just reached an agreement the past year on Iceland's constitution and this year's nation-wide celebration of their millennial, Denmark's king was visiting the island so many of his predecessors had ignored. _Oh, what a difference a century can make…_

"Mm…" Mathias stood up again, looking at the boy from multiple angles. "Two or three centimeters? But still, I can't remember when you last grew!"

Egill almost couldn't believe that this was the same man he had sworn to hate before. He must have finally noticed everything, and he had recently become very aware being sure that Egill was well. He had been asking for years now about the people and the way they lived, happily comparing them to the memories of his own youth. It was true that the national awakening in Iceland had an impact on Denmark. Many of the Danish court had grown enamored with the culture and tenacity of the destitute island nation. On the trip with his king to visit the island, Mathias had rambled endlessly, asking after certain places, recanting how much he admired the child and the people, past and present, he represented.

"And look at your face out in the light! It's not so ashy and ill, it's got color!" Mathias pinched the boy's thin cheeks.

"Don't make such a fuss over me," Egill finally spoke sharply, swatting the hands away.

"Egi-"

"No."

While this was all true, it seemed unreal to Egill. He couldn't forget the past, he forced himself to bring it back in constant memory. He knew Denmark would never simply allow him complete freedom and independence, so even though there were forward steps, this was still a struggle to reach that goal. As he snapped at this man who treated him kindness, he swore to himself to cling to the pains of the past until the Icelandic Free State was a reality again.

* * *

**A/N: I would have posted this yesterday…but instead I made an AMV for Icey…which you should go look at (the link to my youtube channel is on my profile). Yeah.**

**Okay, because I feel like I need to explain this. I do have the headcanon that the 'phantom natives' that Iceland wished he were descended from were…the huldufólk (ELVES). Yes, I know that Himaruya was most likely referring to the Celtic monks who claimed they found Iceland first, but that really did not make sense to me, so thus the headcanon was born, and then fed and grew on the souls of numerous things I have watched and read. /prepares for people telling me how random and stupid it is, but hey**

**Yeah. Everything else I think I explained well enough in the chapter. Idk, ask me stuff if you're confused. I'd love to cram my readers' brains with my lovely ideas.**

**I should really get on top of updating faster again, but…so many beautiful things I want to write more. Well, there's only two more chapters left in this fic… I would say that I dare myself to finish it before 2013, but I know I likely won't do that.**

**~Butter~**


End file.
